Happily Ever After All
by armesanNMU
Summary: Or, the Misadventures of Springer and Jazz. The introduction of Alpha Search and Rescue, and all those cybertronians who got caught in the middle when the Autobots and Decepticons went to war.


HAPPILY EVER AFTER ALL

**HAPPILY EVER AFTER ALL**

"Man, you really stepped in it this time, Springer. I imagine Arcee and Magnus are going to get a kick out of this one."

The occupied berth shifted slightly and groaned in response. "Shut up Jazz."

"Will you stop moving?" one of the medics snapped, giving the Autobot triple-changer a nasty glare. "You're only going to make those wounds worse by doing that."

Springer scoffed irritably. "I personally don't see how this can get any worse."

"You could be dead," Jazz quipped helpfully, a suppressed giggle evident in the way he was smiling. "Corrosion mines are a nasty business."

"Thank you for that Jazz."

"Any time Springer my man."

"And for your information, these so called wounds are hardly worth an ambulance trip."

The medic riding next to Springer gave him an indignant look and a light thwack on the back of the head. "You soldier types wouldn't know a wound if it bit you on the bumper."

In response, Springer shot the medic a glare, but settled down into a sitting position on the berth, careful to lean off his right side, where a majority of the holes were situated, and ignore the stinging of pain sensors as they merrily pulsed away through his nerve relays.

The day had started out routinely enough, though somewhere between arriving at the last security check point and what should've been a routine outpost evaluation, they found themselves riding in the back of a heavily armored Cybertronian ambulance with a flighty medic who kept trying to talk them into powering down into stasis. How, Springer wasn't even sure anymore. All he knew was that there was this nagging pain in his backside, he had a far too large for comfort dent in his chest plate, and Jazz was enjoying himself far too much for the current situation.

Tuning out the medic to the best of his ability, Springer glanced out the front windows, trying to get at least a vague idea of where they might be heading. For much of the trip, the landscape had been a barren waste land of scrap metal, rusted out building shells, expanses of corrosion desert, and an old beat up highway, which they were currently traveling on. What could actually be seen that wasn't coated in rust was at most a speck on the horizon, much too far to see in any clarity. The ambulance tore over the cracked road with little care, allowing his massive shock absorbers to take the abuse, his six tires taking the curves in familiar strides. Occasionally the ambulance would radio to someone on the other end of his frequency, mutter off some coded instructions in a ridiculously upbeat manner, and then return to his private game of 'hit-the-pothole', completely oblivious to the grunts and groans from the occupants in his cargo area. The medic that was with them didn't seem to mind, or was just too busy fussing over Springer to care.

"You're going to short yourself out if you keep moving like that," he said, red optics narrowing in crossly at the triple-changer.

Springer rolled his optics, making it his personal mission not to look at the small transformer directly.

"Ah, quit your belly aching," the ambulance chided, pulling a nasty right turn that nearly sent Springer flying into the wall. Jazz nearly slid off of his makeshift perch on an equipment box before catching himself. "Home's just on the horizon."

"About time," the medic sighed. "I thought for sure you'd gotten us lost this time."

"Now would I do that?" the ambulance asked, with mock resentment. "Just hang onto your skid plates, and we'll be back to the med bay before you know it."

The medic didn't seem too worried about the implications of that statement, but Springer decided to brace himself anyway, keeping his optics scanning for this supposed medical facility. All he'd seen thus far were expanses of desert and old rotted out city signs. Gauging from where he knew he and Jazz had been, and their approximate travel time and direction, he guessed they were in what might have once been the outskirts of Tarn, but it wasn't until he saw the outline of the city itself that he was sure.

Nestled in the crook of the city's edge, the entire facility was actually a collection of old remodeled aerial hangers. Surrounded on either side by a set of long deserted travel ways leading both in and out of the city portion of Tarn, the facility looked like it was regarded as little more than a roadside attraction to those weary of road and eager to stretch their legs. The perimeter was ringed with old rusting fences, one side still decorated with corroded warning signs that foretold of electrical charges carried in the fences. The rust that covered most of the writing attested to the fact that the aforementioned features were no longer active. As they pulled into a turn off, Springer took note of the rather worn-out state of the place. The main entrance was little more than an old rusted gate that never closed and a battered tarmac, caked with very unflattering layers of grime, spilt internal fluids, and melted rubber.

Deciding to ignore the extreme state of atrophy and continue forward, Springer found a series of seven aircraft hangers lined up in the center of the property, neatly stacked one in front of the other over the cracked potholes and spackle that peppered the old runways and asphalt. Almost as a crowning touch, erected in the open area just before entering the hangers was a vidboard that was far too large for its own good, proudly announcing to the world in bright neon blue cybertronian letters 'ALPHA SEARCH AND RESCUE', leaving no question as to what actually was supposed to be going on in here. Springer dimly noted the graffiti marks underneath the title that read, "You break 'em, we find 'em, and make 'em wish we didn't", and wisely decided to forget that he'd seen that.

The hangers themselves were in variable states of decay. Some seemed to have just been refinished; their fresh coats of paint and patches over old weak spots in the building's hull blatant in comparison to one of the others that remained in a glorious state of antiquity. Light blemishes of rust and scraped paint chipped away from most of the hangers, evidence of heavy wind damage branded on the sides of the outermost hangers facing the open expanse of desert badlands. Several had large red symbols painted on their face - a rectangular tuning fork cradling a straight bar of red to create a sort of alien red cross - while other hangers were labeled with a similar blue symbol, facing a vertical direction rather than the red's horizontal pose. Those unlabeled were currently being populated by an odd concoction of transformers, each lying around in a downright unusual state of rest.

Up to this point, Springer had been rather unimpressed with what he saw. As soon as he started studying the staff that was running the facility, he was downright stupefied.

Sporadically placed all across the tarmac was a nigh to impossible collection of Autobots and Decepticons, clad in their respective faction's insignias, with the occasional neutral thrown in for good measure. The supposed mortal enemies were resting peacefully in chairs outside the hangers, others on a lax sky-watching mission on the roofs, while others still seemed to be content to start a game of Breemball over near the perimeter fences. Others still made their way in and out of the other buildings, sometimes hauling cargo from one place to another, sometimes just walking in and out without a care in the world.

"Jazz, please tell me you're seeing what I'm seeing."

The Porsche nodded in equal shock. "I see it, but I don't believe it."

"Home sweet home," The medic grinned, completely oblivious to the fact that the two Autobots were transfixed not by the medical facility, but by the occupants of said facility instead. "Best medical teams anywhere on Cybertron." He rapped his knuckles on the wall behind him to get the ambulance's attention. "Pull into E-4, 'Cross. We'll have the Chief take a look at these two."

"Righty-o then," the vehicle said, accelerating a bit more than necessary and making a direct b-line towards one particular hanger. Springer and Jazz made a few rather valiant but ultimately doomed attempts to remain seated, the standard laws of inertia threatening to topple them into a rather undignified heap on the floor of the ambulance. They resolved in the end that perhaps standing and bracing oneself between the ceiling and the floor was safer.

"Sit down you!" the medic snapped at Springer, trying to force him back down. The green Autobot just gave the medic a glare and continued to hold on and ignore the throbbing sensation in his back.

"Incoming!" the ambulance crowed proudly, skidding into the hanger with the skill and grace of a rusty Yugo. He hit the brakes hard, leveling himself into a controlled spin that brought them not only into the hanger itself, but turned them approximately the forty-five degrees required the make it easy for the back doors to be opened by the medics waiting inside. If the precision with which the move had been executed didn't tip the riders off, the fact that the multiple tire treads etched into the floor of the entrance matched the ambulance's tire pattern did. Apparently the ambulance performed this level of insane driving not only well, but often. "We got a live one here!" he said, opening the doors as soon as he came to a halt to allow his passengers to disembark.

The medic went straight to work, grabbing Springer's arm and roughly dragging him out of the ambulance, making it a point to support his right side on the way down. Jazz was following, taking in the sights as he stepped out, blissfully unaided by a pushy medic.

Inside the main building, the one with the red and white insignia scrawled on its face over the initials 'E-4', it was like watching two rival ant colonies decide whether or not they would be waging war today. The transformers lingering around in the main building were generally of two types. One had blue insignias on their shoulders, most of them obviously outfitted with flier or transport alternate modes more suited for the 'Rescue' aspect. Those with the red marks tended to be of ground-bound alternate modes, and were typically of slimmer, more crafts based build, obviously the medics of the establishment. Strangely enough, those that worked here seemed to pay more attention to the blue and red symbols than they did the Autobot and Decepticon insignias.

The building was big and spacious, accredited to its previous function of a transport shuttle hanger or a cargo bay, the ceiling fixed with a series of diuthal gas lights that lit the interior with tracks of spotlights. Half of the hanger was set aside for storage supply and currently held sway over about five hundred crates of supplies, including, but not limited to, spare armor plating, replacement internal wiring, arc welders, sanders, buffers, plasma torches, sheet metal saws, glass cutters, and at least sixty different shades of any given color of body paint.

Another section was devoted solely to essential fluid storage, protective crates holding within shipments of energon and oil fuel, coolant, lubricants, and one crate devoted to a new discovery that had revolutionized their body shop, WD-40. Four of those storage sections had been cleaned out and restructured into emergency medical bays, though none at the moment looked to be getting much use. The actual areas where most repairs were performed were secluded from the rest of the hanger, sheltered under an addition on the side that Jazz had spotted on the way in. This area had been shut off from the rest of the hustle and bustle of the hanger by a heavy set of pressurized doors, leaving roughly one half of the hanger free for landing platforms, transport carts, a general commons recreation area, and the general mayhem that usually followed when an actual emergency occurred.

Currently it seemed like Springer and Jazz didn't qualify as an emergency, and the fact that there seemed to be no other patients around left most of the medics and rescue workers free to gather and gawk at the two new arrivals. All around him, the scattered crew of Cybertronian rescue workers slowly looked up from whatever it was that they happened to be doing, a gray-green combat helicopter transformer and a black triple-changer in particular paying attention to the open hanger door where several of the medics had already begun crowding around Springer and his reluctant aide.

Ignoring the insistence from Springer that he was perfectly capable of walking on his own, the medic looked over to where the triple-changer and the helicopter were standing. The latter was in the process of hiding what looked like ruined card table.

"Chief, we've got a 743."

"Vitals are stable, but we don't know how bad those things are lodged in there," one of the other medics spouted off, skimming over a data pad he'd nabbed from the ambulance.

"Preliminary scans show a three percent drop in energon levels from the norm."

Jazz, still within earshot, gave the medics a worried look, hearing only snippets of what they were actually saying, one's words overlapping with the next. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, a 743?"

None of the medics were actually paying any attention to Jazz, and just kept rattling off stats and medical mumbo jumbo like classic text-book cases of Iacon medical programming. The black triple-changer on the other hand, took one quick look at Jazz's growing concern, the frantically rambling medics, and then the actual patient, who looked more annoyed and embarrassed than hurt.

"Hold it!" she snapped, casting her gaze at the medics in particular, who immediately stopped speaking. Springer got the rather immediate impression that she was their boss. His suspicions were verified by the red medic badge branded on her left shoulder. She pointed at the three medics that had involved themselves from the sidelines. "You three, go get the report from Red Cross."

"Aye, Ma'am." They chimed in triplicate, and then with all the swiftness of good little assistants, immediately raced over to where the ambulance was, now transformed, and reenacting some scenario involving an I-beam.

With them gone, the triple-changer turned to Jazz, Springer, and the medic that refused to let the green Autobot move about freely. "In the mean time," she indicated the medic. "You need to go fill out an admittance report."

"But, Chief…"

"But nothing!" she snapped with an edge of authority. "You brought 'im in, you fill out the report. I'll handle the repairs." The medic grudgingly let go of Springer, and stormed off to another corner of the hanger, all the while muttering incoherent noises. Springer gave the triple-changer a look of gratitude, to which she smiled. "Figured as much. Now let's get a look at you two." She motioned for Jazz to follow as she gently took Springer's arm and lead him towards the automatic doors that guarded the passageway.

The tunnel connecting the wards and the hanger was nothing more than steel bracers and two panes of plated glass on either side. In a grand display of simplistic architecture, it made a nice, smooth j-shaped path between the two doors leading to the hanger, and the other two that opened up into the ward. With only the bump of metal feet against the doorjamb signifying the end of the passageway, it was hard to tell at first whether you were actually inside the wards or if you had just entered another section of tunnel.

The room that qualified as the wards was large, and had a low ceiling fitted with tracks of diuthal gas lights, similar to those found in the hanger and tunnel. The end result of such a set-up was that it was ungodly bright inside. White washed walls glared back with all the glory of a small sun, reminding Jazz a bit of a phenomenon on Earth called snow-blindness. The room was divided into pieces by metal partitions, flimsy enough so that conversations traveled freely around the room, but sturdy enough to offer a bit of privacy to the occasional patient. Bits of conversation wafted up and over the brims of several partitions, including a rather obnoxious laugh and the clatter of the occasional medical supply taking a fall.

In several rooms, Jazz caught glimpses of other patients, one with massive denting afflicting his torso, another with a very gracious hole in his left leg, and another missing one of his arms. It did set off his warning bells when he spotted another pair of dented transformers bearing a red and blue Alpha Search and Rescue badge.

Aside from the individual exam rooms, there was a medic station where currently a white and gold striped transformer with a scope barrel on his left shoulder was playing a game of Solitary. He, like most of the medics, was branded with a red cross, and regarded the black femme with a nod as she passed. He didn't really seem to care that she didn't respond, and went back to his cards. Behind him, there was a spacious corner where several storage bins were taking root, most labeled in standard Cybertronian writing as to what their contents were. The corner itself was sealed off by a wall and a door, its only opening being where the glass and wire mesh window was located. Jazz was certain there was a perfectly logical reason for the magnetic locks on the door and the security cameras poised around the room, though it seemed to be a bit of overkill for just some simple supplies. The Autobot decided he didn't want to risk asking and offending the bots currently entitled to fix his friend, and kept his mouth shut.

At least until they were out of sight of the medic station. They came to an abrupt halt at the front of an empty ward only a few turns down from the desk jockey.

"Here we go," she directed this comment down at Springer, and with a surprising amount of care, helped him over to the examination berth and managed to shift the green triple-changer around until he was comfortably situated on his chest plate and facing the small entrance to the makeshift room. Mentally, Jazz wished that Ratchet was that careful when dealing with injuries, even stupid injuries. Verbally, he asked, "So, what's a 743?"

"ASR code for 'got shot in the ass.'."

"Very funny," Springer groaned, glaring up at the medic.

"Yet very fitting," Jazz supplied.

"Indeed," she chirped, flipping on a scanner that sat off to one side. She shot a quick glance at Jazz, noticing not for the first time the small series of holes pierced into his left arm and shoulder. "Now, since you're both so eager to talk, how about telling me what exactly happened to you?"

If it were possible for robots to blush, Jazz imagined Springer would be doing that, judging by the way he groaned and buried his head in his arms. The medic only raised an optic ridge in curiosity, and turned to Jazz for an answer. The Porsche in question had to do everything in his power not to laugh.

"Well – _ahem_ – it's kind of an interesting story, really."

"We were setting mines around an outpost perimeter and I got shot by one of the guards, okay?!"

Both the medic and Jazz stared at the seething Springer with a look of either honest surprise, or complete and total mirth, respectively.

"One of the _Autobot_ guards," Jazz added helpfully, unable to contain the wide grin of twisted pleasure. "It was our own outpost, and one of the sandtrappers didn't get the memo about mine-seeding the perimeter."

Two grayed optics dimmed and brightened in the equivalent of a non-believing blink.

"And what dare I ask do your sandtrappers use for ammunition?" the medic asked warily.

"Standard 14 gauge bolt shells. Or a rusty pipe if the inspiration strikes them so," Jazz replied with unusual cheer.

"I would have preferred the pipe," Springer muttered crossly.

The black medic glanced at Jazz with a calculated look of 'what-aren't-you-telling-me'. "And how long did it take him to figure out that you weren't the enemy?"

"About three-quarters of a fifty round magazine."

"And how is it that you have not spontaneously combusted?"

"They're very _old_ 14 gauge bolt shells."

"You are getting some sick sense of amusement out of this, aren't you?" Springer asked, glaring up at his comrade.

Jazz only grinned back. "A bit, yeah."

"You boys are a hoot," the medic sighed, flipping open a diagnostic port on Springer's side and hooking up the scanner. "Now if you'll just give me a second…" Mentally triggering a hidden latch on the underside of her forearm beneath the arm guard, she began multitasking with the scanner while her commlink connected to its unlucky recipient. "Hey Reavs!"

A loud clank and the rather verbal and high pitched cursing, coupled with the silent grin of satisfaction stretching across the faceplates of the medic, indicated that the recipient of the message wasn't expecting any sort of greeting, and definitely not one that loud or sudden. "- Primus dammit, slagging, smelt-pit ridden, rust bucket, piece of – what do you want?!"

"Oh stuff it, you know what I want. Get your whirly-bird aft over to room 3-0-9 and grab a few prod cams from Interceptor while you're at it."

"I'll show you a prod cam, Chief!"

"Don't you 'Chief' me!"

"Did you even consider that I could have been performing some delicate operation when you so graciously interrupted me?!"

"Racing Thunderbird's retro-rats doesn't classify as important."

There was a hiss of pressurized doors opening from the far side of the room, coupled with an echo of the conversation taking place over the medic's commlink.

"You're just jealous because they don't like you," the voice retorted, the echo bouncing off the walls from the general direction of the medical supply station.

The medic rolled her optics as she slapped the scanner back out of the static fritz it had indulged itself in. "Yes, my entire self-image is balanced on whether or not I can gain the approval of a bunch of cyborg rodents."

"You have your cards, and I have my rats," the helicopter snapped, her actual voice overtaking the commlink as the flurry of metal feet and loose hanging equipment came bounding up to the room, and materialized into the form of the helicopter from the hanger. She had several lengths of wire and what Jazz guessed were the prod cams slung over both shoulders, almost obscuring the vertical blue rescue badge that peeked out from within the shade of gray-green body paint. She instantly cast a rather disapproving glare at the medic, whose only response was to grin like an overly proud smart-ass.

"Yes, and lets just remember who's in debt to who, here," the medic grinned, closing the com hatch with a simple internal command. The helicopter replied with a bland look of calculated, uninterested boredom.

"Plug it," she snarled, tossing the cams at the medic.

A nervous glance and a simpering hope passed between Jazz and Springer that the two were not going to be working together. To break the awkward tension Jazz to finally spoke up. "Uh…if you two ladies are quite done, there's the slight matter of my friend's ass to deal with."

Springer shot another glare at the Porsche. "You really know how to lay it on thick, don't you?"

Jazz retorted with a smug grin. "We all have our less than glamorous moments. Need I recall the incident where Gears found himself towed into a Quickie-Lube on accident?"

"How endearing," the 'copter chuckled, folding her arms across the black glass of her chest plate.

"Eh, it's all in good fun," Jazz shrugged. "A nice change of pace from our usual slagging sessions with the Decepti-" He stopped himself short, his visor fixed, for the first time on the other sigil the helicopter femme was sporting, this one a faded shade of Decepticon purple. It had been hidden underneath the bundle of prod cams. "Uh- what I meant to say….that is…."

"Con," she supplied. "Decepti-con. It's not that hard to say."

There was an awkward stretch of silence from the two Autobots, optics entranced by the simple mark. The helicopter could practically hear the gears turning in their heads, a familiar aura of mistrust radiating off them in waves. The medic sighed softly to herself, but said nothing aloud, resolving instead to continue running the diagnostic.

"Let me hazard a guess," the Decepticon helicopter chided, seemingly immune to the sudden faction tension. She leaned back against the partition walls, waving a finger between the two Autobot visitors. "You two are from the Front Lines."

Jazz's visor flickered in surprise. "Uh…yeah. Earth-based actually. But…how did you--"

Nodding with a sort of sagely approach, she looked back over to the medic triple-changer. "You want I should explain it, or should you?"

Almost forgetting for an instant that she was even there, Springer and Jazz's attention was thrown back to the medic, still holding her tangle of prod cams. She tapped a foot in thought before finally speaking. "Tell ya what. For the sake of convenience, you go with Reaver and wait out in the main hanger."

She gestured to Jazz, who nodded warily and proceeded to follow the Decepticon helicopter out of the partition, making sure to keep her in front of him at all times. The helicopter, it seemed, didn't really care. The same silence followed all the way the exit, only lifting when the hiss of the doors announced that they were gone. Twisting his head to one side to watch the medic's reaction, Springer stared at her for nearly a full minute before she actually looked up from untangling her mess of prod cams. She regarded him with a sly grin.

"So, have you ever seen a Decepticon Rescue worker before?"

Going back into the general populous gathered in the hanger, Jazz found that he had glassed over much of the actual surroundings upon his initial arrival. The medics and rescue workers had settled back down after getting the full report from the ambulance that had brought Springer and Jazz here in the first place, most calmly resuming whatever they'd been doing beforehand. A dull red glow from the dim sunlight that did actually manage to make it to Cybertron covered most of the doorway, accented by the timed lights that began turning on outside the opened hanger doors. Surprisingly, there was very little actual work being done. A technician or one of the younger recruits would wander by with a crate or a data pad in hand, but aside from that, everyone seemed to be infected with a completely foreign calm. Rescue workers and medics ambled by, some with their week's ration of energon, others happily counting their credits as they disappeared out the hanger door.

More so than anything though, Jazz noticed the unusual amount of Autobot-Decepticon pairs that seemed to be quite happily associating with one another. If they weren't wearing faction symbols, he might not have been able to tell them apart. It was as if the war raging on outside the fences of the facility just didn't exist here. The entire area had the air of a place that seemed quite content to let the world pass it by and keep to itself.

"Are…you all really Decepticons?" he muttered absently, almost dreamily.

"Those with the sigil to prove it," the helicopter supplied helpfully as she glanced back at the Porsche. "We're the ones Megatron left out of the loop."

Jazz sighed, scratching the back of his head in bewilderment, as if he were beholding Devastator in a Cybertronian Dance Exposition. "And you all just ignore the fact that most Autobots and Decepticons outside the base are currently fighting for supremacy of our race?"

"Yep."

"Completely oblivious that the two factions are trying to tear each other to pieces."

"That's about the jist of it."

"And everyone here is okay with this…this…arrangement."

"Those that aren't usually crack the first day."

Jazz just stared at the helicopter for a few minutes, his expression blank in amazement as the information of his surroundings sank in. The helicopter, shifting her face plates into a position to equate a grin, extended her hand towards Jazz, the other resting confidently on her hip. "The name's Reaver. Head of the Rescue Division."

It took Jazz a few seconds to register what she was saying, and several more to allow his mind to think of a decent response. One part of him screamed that this place was wrong on all but the most primordial of levels, while another more incessant voice reasoned that there was nothing to be afraid of here. Everything and everyone around him seemed completely and utterly at ease with themselves. The only combat in the air was that of friendly rivalry, something commonly found amongst fellow Autobots. It was surreal. It was an unheard of occurrence. It was…impressive. Envious even.

Eventually, Jazz took Reaver's outstretched hand, in the traditional Cybertronian greeting. "Jazz. And if you don't mind my asking, how exactly is all this possible?"

Reaver's grin widened. "Grab a seat, Jazz. Your friend is in for a few hours of repairs and it's a long story."

"It's not too bad, is it?"

The medic finished removing the dirt-coated armor from Springer's injured area, and leaned to the side to meet Springer's sheepish expression. Personally, she was surprised he wasn't still mulling over the status quo concerning the staff.

"If I said you're fine, I'd be lying," she retorted setting the armor to the side. "But the good news is no vitals were hit. Those that did penetrate your armor did a number on a few transformation cogs, and one came pretty close to royally screwing up your rotor relays." She rolled up the lengths of the prod cams she's been using to examine the holes in Springer's backside, and idly tossed them off to the side with the scanner. "They shouldn't be too hard to pry out."

"Heh, I guess I can file this one under minor nuisances then," Springer chuckled, trying to sound relieved.

"If it suits you," she said, digging through a box of supplies near the scanning console. She glanced back over her shoulder at the green triple-changer. "So what brings an Earth based soldier like you all the way out here to Tarn?"

"Routine outpost maintenance," Springer shrugged, as best he could on his front side.

"I noticed your friend was sporting a few bolt holes himself," the medic added, testing a pair of clamps and tossing them idly off to the side. "Is that routine as well?"

"Normally we don't have trigger-happy sentries near highly explosive materials,"

"And how exactly did you end up coming across Bresco and 'Cross?" the medic wondered, an optic ridge peaked in question. "They were on patrol in the city limits today."

Springer paused, clearing a bit of static out his vocalizer before continuing. Unfortunately for him, the medic didn't miss the hesitation. "Erm…well…Jazz radioed ahead for a pick-up in the city and we ran into them. Quite literally…I ran into your friend the ambulance."

The medic was silent for a few moments before Springer heard a few shorted coughs that sounded suspiciously like giggling coming from her direction. Deciding it futile to try and defend what little dignity he had, up until now, salvaged, Springer sighed and let her finish her coughing fit. "And I suppose this would explain the nice…" she snickered slightly in the middle of her sentence, which Springer didn't miss. "…dent that you have in your chest plate?"

Springer shot the medic a glare. "I've been through worse."

The medic nodded her amused grin still prominent. "Uh-huh…and we haven't scraped you out of a ditch yet, why?"

"Is this conversation supposed to make me feel better?"

"In theory. It means you know how to take care of yourself," the medic grinned, prying a small metal saw and a set of pliers from the crate. "Most of the time. Now if you'd be so kind as to hold still, I'll have these shells out and a patch you up in a click."

Springer sighed, slightly grateful for the change of topic. "Uh…thanks….um…I don't know your name."

"Paradox," the medic said, setting to work on the first bolt shell.

"Springer….OW!"

"I said don't move," Paradox chided. "I can put you into stasis mode if you'd like."

"No. I just wasn't ready," he looked back at the medic's tools. "And I wasn't expecting you to use vice-pliers."

"Heh, your CMO must be a gentle soul if he's never had to resort to vice-pliers."

Springer smirked a bit, suppressing a chuckle that would probably offset the medic's pliers again. "Actually, he has a tendency to resort to a crowbar if you come in too many times."

"Autobot City sounds like a medic's paradise."

Springer chuckled weakly, wincing slightly as the bolt shell was wedged out of the torn metal. A loud clink echoed up from the floor as Paradox tossed it aside and began loosening up the next one. "I…suppose. Its a bit less unnerving than here, no offense," he amended hastily.

"None taken," Paradox shrugged, shaking off some of the energon leakage from the pliers. "Most visitors don't trust one half of the staff or the other. It's not uncommon."

Springer winced as another bolt shell was wedged free of his internals, pausing his train of thought. He glanced back at the medic out of the corner of his optics. "How did you know about Autobot City? The city's not even half finished yet and it's still classified."

Paradox shrugged. "We get all sorts in here. Heard bits and pieces from different 'bots and just put two and two together. There are only so many things that can be built using a frame shell that requires four shuttles to transport it."

_Clink!_

"So you've been keeping track of the whole war from here?"

"At least for the last nine million vorn," she shrugged. "A couple of stellar cycles ago we had a bunch of Shockwave's lackeys come in with one or more limbs missing. They were more than happy to divulge what exactly had removed their appendages."

"I see," Springer said, not quite shocked, but a bit surprised at how normal the medic seemed to think the incident. He decided to try and change the topic. "So what got you into this line of work anyway?"

"My horrendous aim and complete lack of firearms coordination," the medic grinned mischievously. "The pay's not so great, but the amount of slag we can get away with makes up for that."

"That really isn't reassuring," Springer sighed.

"You can't honestly tell me that medics down in Autobot City don't have their moments." _Clink!_ "Besides, its not as bad as it sounds."

"Define 'bad'."

"Relatively few issues in general, but enough to occasionally make the CMO twitchy."

"You have an uncanny talent for making things sound worse than they are, you know that?"

_Clink!_

"I can get the crowbar if you'd like," she shot back, without malice. "Make it feel just like home."

Springer sighed, a slightly more relaxed grin tugging at the corners of his lip plates. "I appreciate it, but I'll pass."

"So, how's the surgery comin' Doc?"

Paradox glanced up from her messy instruments to find Jazz once again standing in the entrance. Reaver was no where to be found, which was no surprise, given that it had been several hours since the helicopter had dragged the Porsche out of the wards. Springer shifted slightly on his front, head resting comfortably against his upturned palm, looking a bit more relaxed, though just as thoroughly embarrassed, and strumming the fingers of his free hand on the metal. For the large part, he looked mostly undamaged, until one took a look at his backside, which had become a royal mess of energon, internal fluids, wires, torn metal and exposed circuitry. With the section of his back armor removed, the burnt out transformation cogs and a set of frayed wires around his helicopter mode's rotor were plainly visible.

The floor was littered with a small army of expended bolt shells, the alloyed casings hollow and empty, but decorated with varying coats of energon and fluid from small ruptured fuel lines. Several fried circuit boards were mixed in with the casings, drops of energon slowly seeping into the charred conduits. The medic herself was wrist deep in fuel stains, her hands glowing slightly from the energon that dripped from the insanely messy vice-pliers. She was currently prying one of the few remaining casings from Springer's lower back when Jazz had walked in. Regarding Springer's companion with a smirk, she finished loosening the shell and yanked it out in a grand flourish. Springer, used to the slight twinge from his pain receptors by now, merely twitched as it was pulled free.

"As ugly as it looks, your friend is fine," Paradox said, tossing the bolt shell onto the steadily growing pile. "Just a few more shells, a few transformation cogs, and some new wiring and voila! Good as new."

"And just in time too," Springer chimed in with mock indignity.

"If you think your pride is suffering now, wait until you hear what our latest transmission of HQ has to say."

Springer groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You have got to be kidding me."

"You see, it seems that once we left the outpost, the CO there radioed our ride, which then sent the report back to Earth, and…well…"

"I swear to Primus Jazz, if you're about to say what I think you're about to say, you can turn yourself around and just march out those doors, because I don't want to hear it."

"Sideswipe and Sunstreaker send their regards."

This time burying his entire face in his palm, Springer just shook his head sadly.

"This is a bad thing, I'm presuming?" Paradox guessed, ripping free another shell and setting down the pliers.

"For anyone hoping to keep a somewhat decent reputation, yes," Springer supplied.

"Ah," was the only reply, as Paradox grabbed for a soldering iron and began to work on the burnt out cogs. "Good to see that someone besides Doubledrive has thoroughly embraced the way of the deviant."

"You have no idea," the triple-changer sighed dejectedly.

"Have they rigged paint cans to superior officers' office doors?"

"Yep."

"Introduced retro-rats into the recharge rooms after first coating several transformers in sweet oil energon residue?"

Jazz and Springer gave the medic an incredulous stare. "Not quite," Jazz said. "But I believe one time they swapped out upgrade schematics with ones for Earth style kitchen appliances."

Paradox snickered. "Make sure on your Sideswipe and Sunstreaker's next vacation leave you point them up this way. We can make use of their talents."

"Duly noted, ma'am," Jazz said, giving the medic a mock salute.

Another hour of repair work on Paradox's part finally managed to scrape out all the burnt and damaged parts from Springer's internals, and one more hour after that saw the last of the rivets welding his armor back into place, the holes patched up by one of the techs sometime during the repairs. In his time under the medic's care, Springer found that she was quite the conversationalist, even if she seemed a bit loopy at times. The questioning almost seemed routine, as though she'd carried on the same conversations with other patients for the millions of years she claimed to have worked there. After considering that, it came as no surprise why she was able to work with such precision while rambling on about off world medical tours.

_I guess it comes with the job,_ Springer thought to himself, stretching his cramped elbow joints. _Someone's got to get the mind off of the tools they dig into you._

"…and I flat out refuse to go into detail about how exactly that kid got his hands on that stun prod," Paradox finished, waving her welding torch in sync with her words. She tapped a few of the new seams and grinned, shutting off the torch with a flick of the finger. "There we go Soldier-Boy," she said, using her new nickname for Springer. If he recalled right, Paradox had only used his real name once or twice in the whole six hours of repair and casing removal. "All fixed up and ready for your next war story."

With a mix of hesitation and gratitude, Springer lurched to a kneeling position, trying to ignore the stiffness that had crept into his servos from the hours of motionlessness. Bringing his legs out from underneath him, he managed to turn himself right side up and into a sitting position, his legs dangling off the side of the berth. Surprisingly, the pain sensors were abnormally silent, lacking all but the faintest ache of the injuries. Reaching back, he ran his fingers over the sealant that had filled in the holes in his armor, feeling only the pangs of that 'never-been-used' sensation.

He gave the medic a surprised look. "Wow…"

"Yeah," she replied with a smirk, wiping off the outer layers of the energon build-up from her hands. "I get that a lot."

"Hey Chief-O!"

Both Paradox and Springer glanced over at the door, and the red and gold transformer that was the source of the noise. He and a few other medics had paused from the general group that had been walking down the hallway to talk to them. "We're all heading down to Hanger D-7."

Another medic, this one a rather unfortunate mix of brown and steel blue yelled from the back, "Come on! Its two for one night and you know it'll be-" There was a muffled sound, like someone clamping a hand over his vocalizer, obscuring the rest of what he had been trying to say. Instead, the red and gold medic grinned, and waved to Paradox, quickly ushering his friends out while glancing back periodically to see if Springer was watching.

Paradox chuckled and waved a hand dismissively as she turned back to her piles of tools desperately begging to be washed. "Rookies…"

Springer fought his curiosity valiantly for a few minutes after the rookies had left, but it eventually won over. He turned to Paradox with a raised optic ridge. "What exactly is in Hanger D-7 that no one wants off base Autobots back there?"

Paradox grinned, looking back at Springer over her shoulder. "Nothing much. Just a nice little hangout where a lot of the off duty medics and rescue workers converge for a hearty conversation and a hefty cube of energon."

"You just described a bar."

"And that is why we don't like having upstanding Autobot soldiers snooping around," she stated matter-of-factly, loading all of the soiled medical tools into a solution container and setting it aside. "Makes for an ugly discussion about ethics and irresponsibility."

Springer sighed. "Well, now I know where Jazz went." He looked up when he caught Paradox moving towards the exit out of the corner of his optic. "Where are you going?"

She grinned back lazily at the green triple-changer. "To converge in a hearty conversation and a hefty cube of energon."

"And you want I should just stay here?"

Paradox shrugged. "You're fixed. If you don't want to come you can watch ol' Doubledrive over there." She pointed across the hall at another open room, and the limp blue and black transformer sprawled across the doorway on a roll-away berth.

"I'm no medic."

"Don't worry. He ran himself off a cliff by accident this morning. He'll be out for at least a few more cycles, and most of the damage is just superficial."

Springer almost considered it, but then caught a glimpse of the purple insignia on the unconscious transformer's dangling forearm. He gave the medic a rather indignant look. "He's a Decepticon."

Paradox, quite unable to hide the rolling of her optics, sighed internally. "It's him or me, Soldier-Boy."

A few moments of deliberation found Springer grudgingly sliding himself off the berth and following up behind the medic.

"You never cease you amaze me, Jazz. Six hours in this place and you've already discovered and assimilated the nearest cultural hangout."

Jazz grinned helplessly, pretending to hide the energon cube he was currently holding behind his back. "What can I say? It's a gift."

"You don't strike me as the gung-ho-solider type," Paradox chimed in, taking the empty seat next to Jazz. "Though it is a bit refreshing to see that the war hasn't thwarted everyone's sense of normalcy."

Springer decided to ignore that comment, and took a seat on the other side of the medic.

The bar, which was actually cleverly disguised as a tool shed, was surprisingly spacious for a glorified supply closet. What during the day was a check in desk for tools and materials made and smooth transition to the actual bar, stocked heavily with energon and other drink ingredients, most of which had been squirreled away for decades before the bar had even opened. The stools that most of the drinking patrons plus Jazz, Springer, and Paradox were sitting in had been adapted to fit into one of the store rooms where the supplies were kept. There were strings of bare lights strung across the ceiling, dotting the floors with miniature spotlights, the edges of the establishment lit by iridescent colored fuel cubes. Currently, there was a small stereo box resting in the corner with an adaptor plugging him into a larger set of speakers, merrily blasting away an outdated track from some long defunct Cybertronian music group. If the patrons of the bar cared, none of them showed, it, most either congregating in small groups, usually numbering between two and five, resting their servos from a long day of repairs, or drunkenly dancing to the retro music out on the improvised dance floor.

A few others were quietly brawling in the far corner, a burly transformer wearing a blue rescue badge currently giving a rather familiar brown and blue medic an infamous robo-noogie, much to the delight of the spectators and those that were placing the bets and collecting credits. Here and there were the occasional glimpses of small cybernetic rodents scurrying about, small glowing harnesses leaving a trail of light behind them as they weaved in and out of the herds of transformer feet, cheering from another section of the staff reacting in accordance with the race. Currently, the green and gold blur was in the lead, with the red and silver trailing just behind. Generally, everyone seemed to be having a good time.

Everyone, that is, except Springer, who was still having trouble swallowing the whole of his surroundings. Jazz seemed right at home, having gotten into a conversation with Paradox about something involving a sub-space wrench and a welding kit, and was thoroughly enjoying himself.

_Then again, this is Jazz we're talking about,_ Springer silently muttered to himself. _The guy could blend in at a Decepticon rally if he really wanted to.  
_

It was not that Springer was incapable of having a good time. Quite the opposite actually, but such carefree days outside the safety of Autobot City had been a long time ago, well before the words Autobot and Decepticon translated into 'friend' and 'enemy'. Now, he just couldn't shake off the underlying notion that he was surrounded by Decepticons; the enemy, and Autobots working with the Decepticons; traitors. Deciding it best to keep his mind from running that nagging circle of war-time self-preservation, Springer mentally ticked away the minutes, occasionally nodding or grumbling some sort of response to a question from Jazz or the medic.

One minute…

Five minutes…

Ten minutes…

Dimly aware that the stereo box had stopped playing music and the brawl in the corner was suddenly getting a bit rougher, Springer ignored the general populace until he saw Jazz and Paradox scoot off to one side of the bar. He twisted his head over a shoulder to see what might have enticed the two of them to move, but by then it was far too late to get out of harm's way. Apparently what had started as a simple scuffle had escalated into a full out melee between a set of medics and a set of rescue workers. Somehow, in a matter of seconds, one of the rescue workers managed to get a good enough grip on his opponent to hoist him up and launch him clear across the dance floor and into the bar and Springer.

"Oomph!"

Literally rammed into the edge of the bar, and caught mostly by surprise, His chest plate scraped against the edge of the table, snapping his head enough to send his gyros out of alignment for a split second. Springer could do little but try to catch himself before falling in an undignified heap on top of the already battered medic currently groaning at his feet. He succeeded, managing to pull himself up and steady himself before the rescue worker continued his assault and proceeded to close the distance to the bar and start kicking the downed medic, all the while spouting obscenities and insults, some of which were in languages Springer was unfamiliar with. While part of him was mesmerized by the artful display of insult words and screamed at him not to get in the middle of someone else's bar brawl, Springer took one look at the Decepticon insignia on the rescue worker before the part of him that was an Autobot solider assumed control.

Contorting his face into an angry scowl, Springer made to push the Decepticon back out of striking range, using his significant height over the rescue worker to off balance him, hopefully putting him on the defensive –

-only to find the backs of Paradox's wings shoved in his face as she swiftly positioned herself between Springer and the rescue worker. The shock of seeing her appear so quickly wore off rapidly, only to be replaced by the awe of how quickly the rescue worker was backing down from the obviously enraged Paradox.

Really, Springer had never heard a femme use curse words so creatively before. He wasn't even sure what a "protoplasmic drooling jolt drone" was.

"-slag sucking, overzealous scrap heap! The next time I catch you injuring not only one of my medics but one of MY patients, I will personally weld your aft to the ceiling above a pit of ravenous viral Canicons! Do I make myself clear?!"

The rescue worker nodded hastily, eagerly retreating under the evil glare from the medic. Springer almost breathed a proverbial sigh of relief, and thanked her, but held it back when she rudely yanked the injured medic to his feet.

"And you!" She hissed darkly, giving the beaten medic a look that could shatter glass. "If I ever…EVER…see you picking a fight with Recharge again, I will hand your sorry, scrapped shell over to Reaver the next time she comes back from a Priority Zero site drop!"

Apparently, whatever a Priority Zero site drop was, it was bad, because the medic was trembling, but he managed a pitiful nod of acknowledgment before collecting himself and scurrying away, probably to go repair himself. Those within earshot shook their heads disapprovingly as the medic left, muttering amongst themselves and giving Paradox either a look of respect, fear, or amusement. A chuckle erupted from the general area of the rat racers, and then everyone went back to what they were doing, leading to the general conclusion that this happened a lot, and only rookies were stupid enough to try something like this while their boss was watching.

Jazz and Springer, however, were still reeling, regarding Paradox with a look that suggested she had just declared herself Primus.

"There's a 'bot I'd like you to meet," Jazz said finally, finding his vocalizer first. "His name is Ratchet. You two would get along fine."

Paradox turned around and gave Jazz a grin, her previous malice evaporating as quickly as it had appeared. "So I hear. I'll have to make it one of my tourist stops the next time I'm in the Sol system."

"Well," Springer stammered, clearing his throat to try and get his bearings back. "I guess that's one way to handle that kind of situation."

"One of the reasons why they haven't demoted me from Medical Division Chief yet," she said proudly, retaking her seat next to Jazz.

Springer sighed, brushing himself off from his earlier collision. "So what happens now?"

Paradox shrugged. "Beacon gets his aft repaired and Recharge goes back to bet-taking. Not much to be done, really."

"What, no one informs the superior officer of the incident?"

Paradox pointed to the corner where the boom box had been situated. "Remember the old stereo box?"

Springer nodded warily, not liking where this was going. "Yeah…" He followed the direction of Paradox's finger to an older 'bot with a white horizontal badge branded across his chest.

"That's Bandbox," she said matter-of-factly. "Head of Alpha Search and Rescue."

If it were possible, all of the paint from Springer's faceplates drained onto the floor at that moment. Optics dulled in stupefied surprise, he couldn't help but stare at the beat up old transformer currently passing as the Leader of Alpha Search and Rescue.

Jazz tried half-heartedly to cover up laugh. "I know who I'm voting for next Prime!"

Springer shot the Porsche a glare, but said nothing, his mind trying to sort through the plethora of illogical goings-on. "So your superior officer not only employs Decepticons, but he also has absolutely no authority over his crew, leaving the Division chiefs to handle any faction tension that comes up," he said bluntly, taking a seat again. He glared at Paradox. "Correct me if I'm wrong but isn't that a rather dangerous tactic when you're supposed to be repairing people for a living?"

"It was just a bar fight," Paradox hissed, leveling a cold stare at the green Autobot.

"Which under normal circumstances I have no trouble with, except that your Commander in Chief just watched a Decepticon try and slag an Autobot, both of which are under his employment. Forgive me if that doesn't strike me as completely unethical and hazardous as well."

Paradox sighed, looking around at the few bystanders that were actively listening in on the triple-changer. "Okay, Springer. We've got to have a bit of a talk…"

"No disrespect intended, but if you're going to try and convince me that the 'Cons around here are genuinely harmless to Autobots, you've got your wires crossed."

Paradox leveled a now blatantly angry stare at Springer and forcibly grabbed his arm, hauling him up out of his seat and dragging him behind her as she stormed across the room towards the door. At first Springer was a bit surprised that she applied the physical force that she did, but eventually tugged his arm free of her grip. Whirling around to give him another glare, she motioned towards the door, and with one final tug, they were out of the ruckus and quite securely alone in between the walls of the bar and those of the neighboring hanger.

Paradox fixed Springer with a dark look. "Springer, since you're from Iacon and in quite favorable opinion with the ruling honchos there, we've been pretty nice to you. In fact, under normal circumstances, we would've bandaged your shell-riddled ass and sent you back out the door without a second glance. The reason we don't like off base Autobots around here is because you don't understand."

"You like Jazz."

"Your friend doesn't have a rod up his tailpipe."

"Hey!"

"Don't 'hey' me, Mr. Big Shot Soldier," Paradox snarled, poking his dented chest plate with one finger. "We're in Tarn, which is quite a ways out of your jurisdiction, and since we're not bound by your stuffy Iaconian regulations, the least you could do is show a little respect. Not a single 'Con in this place has done you any harm so you'll do well to lay off the stereo-typing."

"How can you possibly know that every single Decepticon employed here is trust worthy? Half of them probably took orders from Megatron himself at some point!"

"And half of the Autobots here worked under Prime," the medic hissed. "That doesn't seem to worry the Decepticon Soldiers that wander in here from time to time."

"Of course they're not worried. If an Autobot tries anything they'd just shoot him," Springer drawled sarcastically. "You can't possibly expect me to believe that every Decepticon that wanders in here is immediately immune to suspicion."

"Every slagging medic wearing a badge has had his ass slagged half-way to the Pit and back," Paradox growled, jabbing a finger back in the direction of the bar. "This is more than I can say for some Autobots that haul themselves in here after burying a city full of civilians in their own homes." She leveled her cold blue stare on Springer. "Don't start judging what you don't understand in the first place."

"I understand more than you're giving me credit for," Springer shot back. "You shut yourself away in here and ignore what happens outside, piecing together what you think might've happened from some rubble and a few broken transformers. We didn't start this war, and despite what your Decepticon comrades might tell you, the tragedy you see is just a taste of what the main Decepticon fleet is capable of. If we just sat back like you this entire planet would be in ruins worse than it is now."

"Worse? How can things get any worse?" Paradox demanded. "We live in fear of a fragging symbol, for Primus' sake! The reason we don't play by your safe little rule of faction exclusion is because then no one would be around to help those that get left behind. No one would be there to dig out those buried alive in the aftermath of the battles. No one would be left out here except the mines and the mercenaries."

"Rules are in place for a reason. How many of your harmless bar fights stem from the primordial rivalry between factions? How many patients died because a Decepticon and an Autobot couldn't work together?!"

"That," the medic hissed. "Is not the concern of outsiders, and you are forgetting one tiny little detail."

"And that is?"

The sneer on Paradox's face plates was positively sinister. "You're on our turf now, and you're playing by our rules. Now put a mute guard on your overactive vocalizer, turn yourself around, and get your ass back into your ward before I am forced to put you there myself. I'll have your release forms processed immediately and you can move yourself out tomorrow."

Springer just glared, his lip plates pressed into a thin line, hands balled up into fists so tight that they were trembling, as if at any moment he might reach out and deck the smaller medic. By the graces of what could only be an otherworldly patience, Springer managed to reign in that urge. Barely.

_If only you weren't wearing that slagging Autobot symbol,_ Springer snarled mentally. Aloud, he simply grumbled some inarticulate noises and left in the direction of the main hanger wards.

"Ungh," Paradox scoffed angrily, tossing her hands into the air helplessly. "As long as I live I will never understand soldiers!"

"Now I remember why I hate dealing with neutrals."

Jazz sighed, readjusting himself on the chair he'd fashioned out of the crates left in Springer's ward. The aforementioned Autobot was currently pacing restlessly in the small room, brooding, and generally running himself restlessly in circles. Jazz had left the bar shortly after Springer had been dragged out by Paradox and after asking around; he discovered Springer had returned to his ward. Paradox, he had no idea where she'd gone off too, nor did he have any intention of looking for her, instead opting to get the full story from Springer. From what Jazz had gathered, both from the confrontation he'd witnessed and what Springer had recounted, the general argument had covered the basics of every touchy subject known to Cybertronian. For the most part Jazz just sat back and let Springer vent, waiting until he was finished before adding in his own two cents.

"Well, she didn't call you a malfunctioning slag eating bastard son of Megatron's toaster oven," the saboteur offered helpfully.

Springer raised an optic ridge at Jazz. "You're not helping any."

"Well, figure they've been sitting here for millions of years and from what I can gather, quite happily staying out of the war in cooperation with each other, regardless of faction."

"I know, I know," Springer sighed in frustration. "It's just…I don't know…something bizarre and unnatural about it."

"What's so unnatural about Autobots and Decepticons working together? It's happened before," he paused a moment in thought. "Strike that. Truces have happened before. And those often ended in someone getting a face full of photon charges."

"See what I mean?" Springer groaned. "I mean…if Autobots and Decepticons from all over the planet can get along here for millions of years without once having to try and slag one another…Why can't we?"

Jazz thought about it a minute before making any reply. Springer had a point.

"What's so different here that allows such a relationship while off base we shoot anyone with an opposing sigil on sight?"

"Millions of years of conditioning for one thing," Jazz said. "And I can't imagine our opposing propaganda has helped any either."

"Yeah, but they've completely shut themselves off from the outside world. Anyone not wearing a facility badge is marked an outsider, and completely locked out." Springer started pacing again, trying to think this through. "Is this a price you have to pay for inter-faction cooperation? Cut yourself off from the whole of life outside those fences?"

"Why don't you ask them?"

Springer actually chuckled a bit. "I basically just told the Head of the Medical Division to slag off. I highly doubt she or anyone else will be in the mood to discuss philosophical faction issues with me."

About a million different suggestions ran through Jazz's head, but none of them managed to make it into a sentence before a standard issue, old fashioned warning siren started wailing from outside the hanger. Of all the things Jazz and Springer thought to expect out of the base, it was probably one of the most obvious, and strangely out of place.

"What the smeg is that?" Jazz wondered, already answering the blatant question in his own mind.

He was answered with a flurry of metal feet rushing by, in the form of a herd of medics that neither of the two Autobots noticed being there in the first place. Among others was the desk jockey from earlier, a sense of urgency dominant where his usual expression of calm used to be.

"We're not going to find out sitting around in here," Springer said distantly, already making to follow after the rush of medics. He hailed one of the tailing transformers. "Hey! You!" The medic paused, though he was still slowly backing towards the exit. "What's going on? What's with the siren?"

"Priority Zero! In the badlands! Someone hit the mother of all mine fields!" he screamed as he turned and ran to join his comrades.

Springer looked back at Jazz and shrugged helplessly. "As bizarre as it sounds, I wasn't expecting that."

The two stood there for a few moments, each pondering what course of action might be taken. On the one hand, they had no medical training outside the normal self-maintenance, and could quite possibly become a liability if they were to try and offer assistance, while at the same time there was a distinct possibility that they might actually do some good rather than just sit back in the wards while a helpless transformer wallowed in the midst of a mine field.

"It could be Decepticons," Springer said.

"Or Autobots," Jazz countered.

Several minutes later, they found themselves emerging into the main hanger from the tunnel.

With the alarms going off, the usually quite and bleach white ward was coated thoroughly in a heavy red light, which bled into the tunnel and out into the main hanger. As impossible as it seemed, the population of ASR seemed to have multiplied instantaneously. The main area was swarming with medics and rescue workers, most of which were frantically organizing into what looked like battalion regiments, other groups of medics filing their way to the back storage areas while the rescue workers made a clearing in the entrance. Those that weren't taking orders from the medical crew chiefs or organizing into EMS responder teams were running around with practiced ease, grabbing data pads and reports from the communication techs, then disappearing out the doors and over into a neighboring hanger. The general lack of blue or red medical symbols indicated that those running into the other hangers might be the general mechanics and engineers that fabricated the armor into workable material.

The tarmac outside the hanger had transformed into a triage unit, lit only by the base's lighting fixtures, the expanses of desert beyond the perimeter fences swallowed up by a near pitch blackness that was night. None of the Dark Lights were on, conserving precious power until the phase of Cybertron's orbit would put half of the planet into a four month long darkness. It was insanity with a sense of unity that kept it from unraveling into general panic. Offhand, Springer was reminded of an Attack Scramble back in Autobot City.

"What in the name of Cybertron's third moon are you two doing out here?!"

Springer and Jazz found their optics drifting over the hordes of personnel, trying to locate the familiar voice which quickly identified itself as Reaver's as she stormed up to them. She, like everyone else, looked edgy, and deadly serious. The commlink port on her wrist was open to video feed, which had a split screen between two other fliers, both of which looked fairly experienced. Jazz suspected they might be her crew chiefs.

"The notion crossed our minds to help," Springer said crossly, bringing himself to put aside the inherent distrust that glaring Decepticon symbol placed in him.

"I think you've done quite enough," Reaver barked back, giving Springer in particular a nasty glare. "Now get back to the wards before I have to commit you."

"With all due respect, Ma'am," Jazz cut in, catching Reaver's attention. "We heard this involved a mine field, and in my experience, it helps to have someone along who knows their way around a mine."

Reaver gave the Autobot a disbelieving look. "And you do?"

Jazz did a slight bow. "Jazz: Autobot saboteur extraordinaire, at your service."

The helicopter gave the two Autobots another once over, then finally sighed in frustration. "Fine, fine," she pointed at Springer. "You bring him if you want to make yourself useful, and follow me." She turned and left in a hurry, grumbling something akin to, "Paradox is going to kill me for this," before transforming into her helicopter mode and loading up a few of the smaller medical crew chiefs.

Springer gave Jazz an irritated look. "You do realize what you've volunteered us for, right?"

Jazz smiled weakly. "Well, we'll get to see these fellas in action. Plus, you get to stretch your rotors for your trouble."

Already defeated in the matter, Springer sighed, and transformed to his helicopter mode, lowering a lift cable for Jazz to hang onto.

Paradox had mentioned a Priority Zero site drop before, and Springer, being of virtually no medical background, hadn't the faintest idea what that was. He did not, however, expect it to be as bad as it was. A scout had called in the explosion, and being the closest to the site, had made an attempt to get to the source of the disaster to account for some details. He'd gotten his left leg mutilated with a shrapnel mine for his troubles. Still active and having made enough on-site repairs to get him back to ASR; he directed the small armada of medics towards the actual area of detonation before departing.

Without the aide of the Dark Lights, Springer couldn't help but feel like he was flying blind, the infrared barely able to distinguish between road and rusted desert. All he could make out in virtually any spectrum were the fliers ahead of him. All in all, there were about seven rescue fliers not counting Springer, each with a maximum of two medics, and about three medics with flier alt modes that were making the initial trip to gauge the severity of the damage. One was Reaver, and Springer strongly suspected that Paradox was somewhere in the mix. All the way there they were shouting back and forth in strange coded words, some of which Springer caught snippets of, but he ultimately gave up, instead focusing on where Reaver was leading them.

"I've got two P1's on scan," Reaver said, circling overhead. "There are several P3's and a P2 as well."

"And watch yourselves guys. There are still active mines all over the place," one of Reaver's passengers said.

"That's where you boys come in," Reaver chided, 'looking' back over at the green helicopter. Jazz gave the helicopter femme a sign of acknowledgement. "All right then. Let's get to work 'Bots!"

As bad as Springer's mind might have predicted the carnage to be, it was worse in real life. The mine field apparently ran right into a small turn off of the main highway, where what might have been a service station used to stand. The victims seemed to have been making a bid for that rest stop when they ran into the first wave of hidden detonators. The concrete had been charred black, fusing pieces of what was once a transformer to the ground in what could only be the epicenter of the blast from a corrosion mine. Small puddles on the still smoldering carcass were bubbling like some horrible viscous cauldron, the shell still sparking and twitching from frayed nerve wires, the body denying that the spark had been extinguished. The dead transformer's comrades were not so lucky.

What could only be described as the closest thing to undead Springer had seen short of actually being dead, the survivors were in ruins. What had been referred to as P3's, or as Springer guessed, Priority 3 patients, were in the best shape of them all, but even that was a far cry from stable. Parts of their armor had been sheered away on impact from the blast, leaving roughly three quarters of their body an exposed mess of wires and endoskeleton. Energon that had been in fuel lines on the right side of their bodies, the side that likely took the most damage, had crystallized, seizing up their motor functions and leaving them to slowly die of blockage, if the vital fluid didn't find somewhere else to leak out of first. Those that might've had protective armor were still able to move, but barely. Perhaps enough so that those with hands could reach up and touch the molten metal that had merged with their face plating.

The P2's were not even conscious, burned and mangled so badly that the only thing that could qualify as metal was the shrapnel from the outermost mines still wedged tightly into their burned frames. One in particular covered a small radius of forty feet, his internal wiring savagely ripped out of his exposed side to fuse together with that of another, and likely already dead transformer. And the P1…Springer wasn't sure how Reaver identified it as a transformer in the first place. All he saw was molten metal and gelatinous partially crystallized internal fluids. Focusing in, he could barely detect the pulse of its core, the faintest glow of life still visible on the infrared spectrum.

"Curbside, Citadel, take the two 3's. Nighthawk and Vanguard I want taking on the P2's," came the order. It was hard to pick out Paradox from the crowd of fliers; at least until a sleek cybertronian jet did a quick barrel roll off to one side and leveled into a dive, gracefully transforming and free falling the last few feet right between a row of mines. She said something else, but it was an internal radio command, so at best Springer attempted to read her lip plates, but failed miserably. He did however, note how Reaver dropped off her cargo of rescue workers and then transformed to set down next to Paradox. The two of them made a b-line for the P1's.

"Bresco, Towerline, Adanac," Reaver barked in open radio. "I want you guys in vehicle mode and ready for transport. Where's Red Cross?"

Springer 'looked' down at Jazz. "Let's do this then."

At the end of it all, the total work time to not only safely extract the wounded and still functional from the blast site, but bring them back to Alpha Search and Rescue and attempt to stabilize them was twelve long and quite frustrating hours. As it turned out, the casualties had been part of a renegade band of neutral mercenaries that had set up camp outside of Kalis and were making a bid for territory in Tarn. These had been the deserters. Seven had been found still functioning, if on minimal levels. Thus far four had perished. One of the stubborn ones was one of the P1's that Reaver and Paradox had spent a majority of their field time trying to salvage. He seemed determined to fight through this, despite all of his outer body and a good portion of his vital systems being obliterated. Apparently once the words "Priority Zero" were mentioned, one of the facility's armor shops had started work on replacement shells. Mainly just blank slate bodies that could house the sparks of the wounded until their bodies were remade. Thus far a small collection had taken up residency outside the med bays, waiting for the sparks to stabilize before the transfer was attempted.

Springer and Jazz spent their fair share of time deactivating a small cluster of mines to make loading the wounded into those on transport duty easier. It ended up saving the lives of two of the P3's, who went into system shock in the hanger bay. Once they'd made it back to the main facility, both Autobots had partaken in a majority of the repairs, though most if it had been menial work. Exhausted from their endeavors prior to their arrival to ASR in the first place, and now the all-nighter they'd just pulled, they gratefully took a seat on a set of wayward crates that had wandered into the med bay during the procedures.

"I reiterate," Springer sighed heavily. "I will never know how any transformer, sane or otherwise, can find medical work interesting or worthy of career choice."

"Amen," Jazz agreed, even his attitude deflated by the gruesome surgeries. "Remind me to give Ratchet a raise."

Slumping down into a position where he could easily slip into recharge mode for a few cycles, Springer found his napping intentions rudely interrupted by a pair of familiar voices.

"…and they insisted they help, so I figured letting them tag along and play minesweeper would at least keep them out of trouble."

Paradox turned from Reaver to look at the two exhausted Autobots. She and Reaver were as much a mess as Springer and Jazz, if not more so at this point. What little body paint was still untainted by fuel stains was chipped and damaged from rubbing against the internal siding of the charred body shells. Paradox had a nice spatter of fuel over one optic, a matching river dripping off of one wing, her entire frame decorated with filth and grime that likely would take a few days to flake off. Her Autobot sigil was mixed in almost flawlessly with a sizable spatter of still glowing energon. Reaver was in just as bad a shape, her joints sporting rusted debris from digging out the fused pieces from the concrete, her fingers replaced by a set of electro claws she's used to jumpstart one of the failing fuel pumps before loading the patient into one of her co-workers. Apparently she either couldn't retract them or had simply forgotten they were out. Either way, the two of them look positively drained. If Springer counted right, they'd been active for nearly two entire cycles without any recharge.

"I'll say one thing," she said, smiling weakly. "You did an amazing job for having no official medical training. Not to mention your work with the mines."

Jazz grinned weakly. "We try."

Paradox smiled warmly and offered a hand to the green triple-changer. Reaver offered the same to Jazz, careful to keep her claws from inflicting any damage. Springer and Jazz exchanged glances and accepted the help getting to their feet. "Well boys," the black medic said in an approving manner.

"I'd say you've earned yourselves a free tune-up for your troubles." She looked Springer in the optics. "Not to mention my thanks."

Springer simply smiled back. _You're welcome_.

"Man, could First Aid and Ratchet stand to learn a thing or two from you ladies," Jazz whistled, testing out his new optic visor. He hadn't even noticed the nice crack forming in the corner before it had been pointed out. "What'd you use?"

"One of Interceptor's old glass mixtures. He calls it Spectro-Glass," Reaver said, soldering the last of Jazz's helmet back into place. "Hey Paradox, hand me those vice-pliers, will you?"

Paradox absently handed the messy pliers over to her partner, focusing mainly on the new optic she had nearly completed installing on Springer. She made a few more adjustments with the mirco laser, and stepped back a bit, examining her handiwork. "How's that feel?"

Springer dimmed and brightened his new optic in the equivalent of a blink, letting his sensors adjust to the new glass density. "Great. You even got rid of that tick in the corner."

"Which of course will return as soon as the twins get a hold of you," Jazz added helpfully.

"You had to remind me of that, didn't you?"

"Yes…yes I did."

"Ahem."

Jazz and Springer turned back to the two medics, both of which were standing back a bit to get a better view of the full repairs. Jazz's arm plating had been replaced after the bolt shells had been dug out, and Springer's dented chest plate had been buffed and repaired to the point where any evidence of earlier damage was erased. Both Reaver and Paradox insisted on a full check-up before letting the two have a good hour of recharge while their armor was fixed and came in from the shop. Currently, the finishing touches were being put on, and the two medics were starting to sway with weariness. Regardless, their work was excellent.

"Well, you two seem to be taking to the repairs well enough," Paradox said, inspecting the new weld seams, her optics blinking a bit more than usual. "So you're all set to go. Interceptor will check you out and get all the paperwork ready."

She and Reaver turned to leave, muttering something about shift switches. "Wait," Springer called after them, lurching to his feet. They paused, looking back at the two Autobots. "I…wanted to ask you something."

Paradox and Reaver glanced at one another again, something they seemed to do quite often, as if exchanging words through some silent code. For reasons as of yet undetermined, Reaver gave the Autobots on last look, a wave, and then left the ward. From over in the corner near the tunnel's entrance, Springer swore he could hear Reaver mockingly say to the desk jockey something suspiciously akin to, "Looks like everything turned out happily ever after all. You owe me five credits."

Ignoring the antics of her partner's departure, Paradox leaned back against the wall, folding her arms across her fluid spattered chest plate as she fixed Springer with an exhausted look, and got right to the point.

"Look, I understand where you're coming from," she said matter-of-factly. "I understand you think you're doing the right thing, fighting this war, and in some regards you are. But there's more to this than black and white. We're that awful shade of gray that got stuck in the middle, and as much as it might be a pain to play both sides, that's how we've survived. " She tapped the Autobot symbol on her chest. "We never deserted. We just chose a different path."

Springer smiled slightly. "I can empathize with what you do here. And in some aspects, I envy you," he said, waving a hand to indicate the whole of the facility. "But…it's difficult to accept. And for me, I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to fully accept it."

Paradox replied with a tired grin, and gave him a playful slug on the shoulder. "Don't get your servos in a binding. You're not the first one I've gotten into an argument with and you certainly won't be the last." She turned to follow in the path Reaver had gone several minutes earlier, glancing back at the two over her shoulder. "You boys are okay. So take care of yourselves."

She made it a few paces before a voice caught her again. Jazz's this time. "You know if you ever need a contact with Earth…"

"Our doors are always open," Springer supplied with a grin.

Paradox flashed one final grin in their direction before she disappeared.

"So are ours, Soldier-Boy."


End file.
